Denial

As we progress through life there is a notion that we have
Of being limited to a fragile body, which needs constant salve
By way of exercise, food, medicines, to present an appearance
That is pleasing to the eye, with an attractive countenance

Then there is another notion that arises, that we are the mind
Which is nebulous and difficult to define, and always in a bind
About one thought or other, which arise ceaselessly as waves
Crossing one another and beyond in a parade of illusory tales

So what are we then? Is it the gross physique or ghostly psyche?
These are like the elusive pimpernel, here and there quite likely
Triggering a crisis they hold us in sway, waxing and waning lune
Now bright, now weak and dark, playing a lyre, singing a tune

Physical laws are not absolute, and can be easily transcended
Vacillations of the mind are equally malleable and are quietened
By just seeing ourselves in the pristine purity of soul's crystal
And accept the truth, that we deny with an effort phenomenal